


Wakeup Call

by Velvetina_Belle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Gen, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-28 23:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velvetina_Belle/pseuds/Velvetina_Belle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is there such a thing as a typical morning in 221B Baker Street?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wakeup Call

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Wakeup Call  
> Pairing: Gen, Pre-Sherlock/John if you squint.  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Status: Complete fictlet.  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing I am sad to say, I am only borrowing the boys from the most modern adaptation of Conan Doyle’s work, which belongs to Stephen Moffat. But I love them so much I couldn’t resist playing.  
> Summary: Is there such a thing as a typical morning in 221B Baker Street?  
> Warnings: I don’t think there’s anything.  
> Author's notes: My first foray into the ‘Sherlock’ world, and quite possibly my last but I enjoyed the newest episode so much that I couldn’t help myself. I just wish I could’ve done the series more justice.

John wished that he could have something to rely on each morning. There was always a distant sense of fondness etching through his memories when he remembered the almost rhythmic routine of the army morning. Wake up o-six-hundred, wash and shave, dress, line up for morning inspection, eat, exercise and then the day could begin. Even as a medical doctor he’d been ensconced in that way of life.

In those days he’d certainly never woken up to the sound of a riding crop whistling through the air in synchronicity with one of Bach’s fugues – John figured he should know which one it was by now but he hadn’t been quite that well trained yet. However, it defiantly said something that he recognized the song well enough and the piercing quality of the whistle of thin leather whipping through the air and from that could discern that his roommate was in a good mood. With Sherlock that was never a certain thing. Actually, Sherlock mostly displayed a cool indifference to the world first thing in the morning – at least until he’d whacked on his first nicotine patch, or two if the day called for it, and had a bowl of imported Lucky Charms, eating around the little pieces of sugary doom. What really perked him up was when he could rant about how nutritionally bad it was. Nothing ever worked quite as well as a good rant.

He rolled over, back popping as it always did now, stared blankly at the hideous floral wallpaper that he’d totally change if he didn’t think it’d break Mrs Hudson’s heart, and therefore provoking Sherlock to come up with many ingenious forms of revenge. John stretched out his arm and ran his fingers over the grainy wood of his bedside table; solid, grounding and it gave him purchase to pull himself up as he stood. The biting chill of London air in January made him shiver and shuffled quickly to the door where his robe was hanging on the back and his slippers were waiting for him at the base. He put both on quickly and opened the door, which creaked loudly and he swore today would be the day he put oil on the hinges. Moving down the hallway the noise only got louder until it was almost deafening.

The final step toward the living room brought the one and only Sherlock Holmes into view. His blue robe swirled dramatically – when John tried that he just got tangled – as he conducted his imaginary orchestra with the crop. He always cut an intimidating figure, not only for the long, straight-ruled frame that was tougher than it initially looked, and ice-chip eyes, but there was just the aura around him that served as a warning. John would describe it as an almost alien intelligence combined with a ferocious loathing of all things mediocre. The man was terrifying, brilliant and astounding in more ways than John could truly comprehend. Sherlock himself would mock John’s attempt at description – and frequently did whenever he updated his blog, _”Really, John, is amazing the only word in your lexicon?”_ – as he was utterly convinced that he defied description. If, however, the man himself was ever pushed to offer adjectives of himself John was sure there would be a boggling array of words such as; effervescent, implacable and skobeloff, which actually was a colour John had been assured.

He took a moment to steady himself for the upcoming battle of wits, that he was sure to lose since he always lost, and then stepped forward coming into Sherlock’s line of sight and John knew that he’d have to move quickly to get the first word in.

“I, uh, thought we agreed you were going to clear yourself a space whenever you did this now.” John complained as he ducked and rescued his laptop.

“You merely suggested. I offered no response.”

“Well, then we should open it up to discussion again,” John snapped, “because I don’t appreciate you putting my laptop at risk.”

Sherlock spun round once more and fixed John with one of his wide smiles that made him look ten years younger. A trick that John wished he could pick up. “Yet what is life without risks? John you need to allow your mind to open further and then you shall not care about suck trivial matters.”

The music continued, Sherlock continued and so John continued to watch until he cracked and asked, “Fine, what’s got you so chipper this morning?”

“Lestrade visited an hour ago.”

“Oh.” Now he understood. Really, he should’ve guessed. He was having a slow morning.

“Oh indeed. A most delightful morsel too. A wife distressed by her husband’s disappearance, genuine distress for once I believe based on Lestrade’s wording. A beggar held in captivity who is reputed to be that last to have seen him and seems so addlebrained that he can only speak in riddles – a contradiction in terms you shall note. A jealous stepdaughter is in play and a mysterious fortune it waiting in the wings, and so it seems the stage is set. Come along, John, time to get dressed. The game is afoot.”

With a dramatic flourish, that seemed to be an innate gesture rather than designed, Sherlock tossed the crop to one side and swept from the room. John stood still, clutching his laptop to his chest as the music finally fished, and he let out a small chuckle as he let the feeling of being Sherlocked wash over him in its usual dizzying wave. Yes, he missed the routine of the army, but there was nothing in the world that would convince him to miss the experience of being this man’s roommate. And if he was really lucky he could persuade Sherlock to stop off at Starbucks on the way to the Met Headquarters by reminding him that the Christmas drinks would still be on sale and therefore he would be able to obtain a Gingerbread latte. Sherlock’s one flirtation with what he called consumer driven crap that he couldn't ditch and was John’s saving grace this early in the morning.

It was a pretty good start to the day.


End file.
